


Gameplay

by woodsong_1978 (Vae)



Category: Firefly
Genre: BDSM, D/s, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/woodsong_1978
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's something he can't give her</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gameplay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glimmerite](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=glimmerite).



> Firefly and the characters portrayed doing naughty things in this fic do not belong to me. All hail Joss. I make no profit from this.
> 
> Written for glimmerite for midwinter 2007, thanks to fandom_me and ferretwho for beta services.

"He can't do this for you, can he?"

The voice whispers warm and low in Inara's ear, only contact she's got right now. She can't see, she can't touch, but she can hear the soft amusement plain in Saffron's tone. The air's thick and heavy, drugging her senses with the sweet spice of incense until she's dizzy, cool on her skin, prickling her nipples to hardness, calling gooseflesh along her arms. "Don't -"

She feels the slap before the palm connects sharp with her cheek, air shifting abrupt ahead of contact, heat colliding and spreading until she can feel the glow of Saffron's hand on her face, small hand, soft skin, hard bone, unexpectedly strong. Her head turns with the blow, protest bitten back, lips caught between her teeth. Fingers stroke light over the mark and then retreat, sending a shiver along her spine to settle tension through her shoulders, pulled back by the smooth silk doubled around her wrists.

There's a delighted giggle. "Don't tell me don't. Don't ever tell me don't. You might be able to tell him, but you don't tell me."

No need to ask which him. There's only one him, stubborn, infuriating man who worked his way past all her layers of defenses by dint of simply ignoring them, or maybe not even noticing, but yes, she can tell him 'don't', and he won't. Mostly. Sometimes. When the mood takes him. Which it does, more often than not, in her bed.

She's not in bed now, hers or any other. Saffron prefers her like this, kneeling on the floor, hands bound together behind her, eyes covered and plunging her into a blackred awareness, breath short and shallow, unable to predict what comes next. It could be a kiss, a caress, a blow; she can never tell. She's learned not to try and guess, because she's always wrong. Always. It's everything she never has with a client, and it's a struggle to let go of that. Of everything. Of control.

And she loves it.

Sometimes it scares her how much she loves it.

Nails scratch lines across her cheek, thumb slipping under her chin to tease her head back upright. "You're drifting again, sweetie. Don't do that. Answer me. He can't, can he?"

It's not so much a matter of can't, but Inara knows she has to find an answer of some kind. In silence, she searches for the right one, more complex than a simple yes or no. Fingers trail down her neck, over her throat, prompting an instinctive swallow. They trace the sweep of collarbone, lingering in the slight hollow on her right shoulder, souvenir of a riding accident from childhood. Mal's never noticed it, or never mentioned it. Saffron always does, delighting in the heightened sensitivity.

"Or maybe he just doesn't. Because you don't ask him."

Inara can't help the slight jerk as her chin raises in shock. Another reminder that Saffron can read her as easily as Inara reads other people, and awareness that means her social masks are slipping already. They don't fall easily, aren't shed along with her clothes, and it's why Saffron likes her blindfolded. Sight blocked, she can't follow Saffron's body language. She's limited to whatever contact Saffron grants her.

"You don't ask him." Fabric rustles quietly and footsteps pad around behind her - Saffron's still dressed, at least partly, but from the sounds and the rhythm of the movement, her feet are bare. "Because he's set you up on a pedestal so high you're afraid of falling."

Not just afraid. Terrified. For Mal, for herself, for the rest of the crew, for her professional reputation.

One fingertip follows an invisible line across her shoulders as Saffron moves, pausing at the top of her spine, following up to press at the base of her skull, parting hair that lies hot and heavy on her neck and back. Inara follows the unspoken command and lets her head dip forward, pull of muscle stretching the full length of her spine.

"Or maybe it's not your pedestal you're scared to lose." Still soft, still sweet, still perfectly modulated. "Maybe it's the one you put _him_ on."

That's too much, too close to the truth, something she doesn't want, can't have Saffron knowing. "He's got _nothing_ to do with this, don't you _dare_ -"

She knows it's coming this time, but she can't stop the words until Saffron's hand catches her flat and open against her right cheek this time, harsher, harder, jaw colliding with her shoulder, sting blossoming and easing into a smooth red warmth that blurs her thoughts and halts her words, breath hitching in her throat, dizzy at the suddenness.

Fingers linger on her face, blow turned to a caress, almost gentle, tracing rhythmic circles. "I dare." Closer than she expects, sharper, louder. "Tell me."

Trapped behind the blindfold, Inara struggles against the urge to refuse again. There's one way to stop this, she knows it. Two. One that would stop it all, and that's unthinkable with the tension and need thrumming through her body. The other is to give Saffron what she wants. "I don't ask him." His name's never spoken aloud between them once the game's invoked. Her lover. Saffron's husband. Him.

"No," Saffron agrees, soft and pleased, right next to her ear, close enough to feel the warmth of breath teasing against her hair. "You ask _me_. Knees apart, sweetie. Now."

It would be a mistake to believe in the comfort of Saffron's tone, to let herself be lulled into ease. The temptation still exists, to slow, to push back, to resist and refuse, but it's one she fights, breath shuddering as she parts her knees, the rug catching and rough against her skin as her legs slide over it.

"Wider." The correction comes immediately, demanding and certain, further away, a different angle, and acts as scarce warning of the sudden sting of an open hand against her inner thigh.

Sensitive skin reacts more intensely. Inara's teeth sink into her lip, jaw clenching as tension ripples through her, keeping her head up. Her wrists pull instinctively against the bindings, but she moves her knees further apart. Quickly.

A quiet laugh, and Saffron's hand rubs her thigh, pressing against the tenderness left by the smack, pushing it deeper into her body, sinking into the skin, warmth and want tugging heavy and making her achingly aware that like this, her pussy's completely exposed. There's no way of hiding the fact that every word, every order, every touch, every blow is heightening her arousal, evident in the wetness of her pussy, cooling on her inner thighs. And Saffron can see all of it. That knowledge alone is enough to make her shiver.

"Cold?" Not the expression of concern that the word implies, but a single syllable of dark promise. "Do we need to warm you up?"

Oh, sweet Buddha, it sounds so innocent. Without knowledge of Saffron's methods of warming, of the hand and the paddle and the whip that can bite white heat through her body until she aches for it, until she begs without knowing if she's pleading for surcease or excess. Not now, not tonight, even as the memory of pain makes her tremble. Inara swallows, licks her lips, and shakes her head. Once.

A soft, disappointed sound tells her that Saffron's moved again, behind her. Fabric slides against her back, the fullness of a gathered skirt draping over her fingers, and hands push up, into her hair, lifting the blindfold, skin suddenly cool where the heavy darkness has been resting. "Then look," Saffron whispers.

Hands stroke down, pulling her hair back to rest behind her shoulders, smoothing over her upper arms, down and forwards to cup and lift her breasts, a dainty thumb and finger teasing each nipple, turned just enough to let her feel the sharp edge of nail, a threat, a promise, both. Blinking against the golden glow of lamps and candles, Inara looks.

Straight into the mirror in front of her. Into the amusement of Saffron's eyes, looking over her shoulder. "See yourself, sweetie. See my slut."

The woman on her knees. The flush across her throat and chest, the eyes bled dark by blindfold and lust, the lips bitten full and red. The handprint, stark against her face. The slight tremble with each breath she takes. The breasts, held and offered up, nipples hard and pinched until Inara swallows again, convulsive, breath hissing as she fights back sound. The widely splayed legs, smooth skin leading through to the neatly trimmed pussy, lips gently parted and wet, so wet.

Inara whimpers.

Saffron smiles.

The game begins in earnest.


End file.
